


Love is a forgery, if you let it.

by lezzerlee



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dating, Established Relationship, Fluff, Forgery, Heist, Inspired by Art, M/M, Suit Porn, thieves, topside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:47:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezzerlee/pseuds/lezzerlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Inception, Arthur joins Eames for a job topside. He and Eames deal with their relationship and the idea of coming so close to losing themselves in limbo while they plan to steal back one of Eames’ old forged paintings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is a forgery, if you let it.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as a pinch hit for [Inception Reverse Bang](http://i-reversebang.livejournal.com)  
> Thanks to torra_k and adelaide_rain for brainstorming help. Thank you to [imprintofadream](http://imprintofadream.livejournal.com/) and [adelaide-rain](http://adelaide-rain.livejournal.com) for beta-ing! You both rock!  
> I am misappropriating [factual recent art thefts](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-513608/Nazi-link-spectacular-84million-theft-Van-Gogh-C-eacute-zanne-Degas-Monet-masterpieces.html) to suit my needs, thus making Arthur and Eames badasses. With that I am also painting the Swiss in negative light due to my limited research (I’m not an art historian) into the storage, appropriation, and sale of Nazi war plunder. I acknowledge that it could be read as offensive but I do not personally think Swiss people are corrupt or Nazi supporters, only that their government and banking system has been a bit shady about their dealings with Nazi seized art and gold.  
> Here are the suits that Arthur and Eames wear throughout the fic:  
> [Eames’ Airport Suit](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/post/30303890893)  
> [Arthur’s gallery suit](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/post/30231200298)  
> [Eames’ gallery suit](http://lezzerlee.tumblr.com/post/30231186560)  
> [Eames' & Arthur’s Heist suits](http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com/268542.html). Which are from the beautiful artwork that inspired this story by [chosenfire28](http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com).
> 
> ETA: So, I didn't know this before, but [apparently a major art heist](http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/world/2012/10/16/art-heist-dutch-museum/1635961/) went down just hours before I posted. What an awesome coincidence!

Arthur pulls his car into the airport terminal, merging right towards passenger pick-up. He pushes his sunglasses to his hair now that he’s under the canopy, searching the crowd for Eames, having received a simple text stating, “Customs.”

He never knows exactly what Eames is going to look like—the man is a living chameleon—but generally, looking for bright swatches of color and tan skin works.

He’s somewhat surprised when he spots Eames leaning on his baggage, attired in a subdued but nicely tailored navy suit. The jacket hugs Eames’ shoulders, which are deliciously broad, though he is not the behemoth he was months ago, hiding his bulk underneath pleated trousers and brightly patterned shirts. Eames still looks powerful, but his frame is slimmer, more athletically fit. He doesn't know what drove Eames to pack on muscle, nor lose it again. Thinking about Eames' body, tracing the muscle underneath skin, stripping Eames bare to learn his new shape has Arthur's mouth running dry. Even slightly rumpled from the plane, Eames looks dashing.

Turning the wheel to pull in, Arthur stops and rolls down his window. “Eames,” he calls, and Eames looks up with a smile. Arthur watches the line of his suit shift into proper place when Eames starts towards the car. He also sees a few lingering gazes from the other waiting passengers. He smiles to himself as he pops the trunk, letting Eames toss his suitcase and garment bag inside before sliding into the passenger seat.

“Nice car—a bit much isn’t it?” Eames says with a crooked smile.

Arthur ignores the comment; they need to look the part for this job and an expensive car suits their needs. He shifts into drive and pulls back into traffic, exiting the airport and heading into the city. Eames sits silently next to him, settling into the leather seat and staring out the window as buildings pass by. Arthur swears he can feel the extra body heat in the car. He tosses side-glances towards Eames, anticipation making him restless.

They drive south through Zurich quickly. Arriving at their hotel, Arthur pulls through the gates and up to the entrance. He hands the keys to the valet as Eames waves off a bellhop and pulls his bags from the trunk. They walk through the lobby and towards the elevator without speaking. Eames brushes shoulders with Arthur when they enter, but he stares at the golden, reflective surface as they ascend to their floor.

Arthur opens their door, letting Eames slip by him into the room. Arthur catches sandalwood and a hint of cinnamon to Eames' cologne. It's new, like so much about Eames is every they meet. Arthur wants to shove Eames up against the wall as soon as the door closes, but he waits.

Setting his case on the bench by the foot of the bed, Eames pulls out a toiletry bag and heads to the restroom. Arthur hangs Eames’ garment bag then sits. Sun streams in through the curtains, which billow in the breeze. There is a table and chairs on the patio, overlooking the river below. The midsummer weather promises a beautiful week and Arthur plans to make use of the amenities as much as possible.

He can see glimpses of Eames through the cracked bathroom door, watches him brush his teeth at one of the double sinks. He moves away from the door, our is Arthur's sight line and Arthur hears him urinating a moment later. Arthur pulls out his phone to check his email. He ends up staring at the screen blankly; unable to focus on anything but the way his clothes suddenly feel constricting, and the sound of running water as Eames washes his hands.

It had been six months since Arthur last saw Eames. Not an overly long time, shorter than their usual split, but his skin had been itching for contact—like it always did—and he’d been tracking Eames for the last month.

Arthur pockets his phone when Eames opens the door and turns off the bathroom light. “When’s the last job you’ve pulled in—what did you call it this time, meat-space? You've been hanging around Ariadne too much," Eames says.

It isn't true. Arthur hasn't seen her in nearly as long as he hadn't seen Eames. The phrase must have stuck; some things do. Eames leans against the frame of the door, crossing one ankle over the other.

“Too long,” Arthur replies. Memories of two years of running around the world taking job after job pop into his mind, and he blocks them out quickly. Arthur hasn’t had nearly enough time to decompress from the hurricane that was Dominic Cobb. He’s actually thankful that Eames called him, brought him out of the holding pattern he’s been in, loitering in Los Angeles, waiting to see if anyone came after Cobb.

This time around, he and Eames are running a traditional heist: no PASIV, no mazes, no client. A Degas has come up for sale from a private collection. Eames forged this particular painting a long time ago, but private exchanges have made both the forge and the original nearly impossible to track. Eames wants the forgery back. Either can easily fetch over five hundred thousand dollars, but Eames has a mission Arthur doesn't quite understand but doesn't begrudge, removing his past transgressions from the international art market.

Their first job like this, Arthur hadn’t known the painting they were stealing was a forgery. He was just happy to be included in the heist at all. The job came not long after he and Eames had started sleeping together, and Arthur had assumed (correctly) that the gesture was a sign of trust. It was one thing to have someone’s back in a dream, entirely another to have their back topside.

After the rush of a heist gone well, they celebrated by driving out to the country and fucking on the hood of their stolen car as they drank straight from a bottle of red wine. Arthur nearly had an aneurism when Eames took the painting out to a field and set it on fire.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Arthur had screamed, his sex soaked mind going into overdrive as he scrambled to catch up with Eames out in the field. The Matisse was already beyond salvation: charred and bubbling paint on a disintegrating canvas. Eames had just laughed, looking at Arthur with the fire blazing in his eyes and the flickering light highlighting the angles of his face.

“It’s a forgery,” Eames said and then he turned back to the fire. “My first, actually.”

Arthur drifts back from his memories, lucky that their silences are comfortable now. He rubs a hand over the duvet, the fabric soft beneath his fingers. He bites his lip and looks up at Eames through his lashes.

“Feeling jet lagged?” he asks with no subtlety to the suggestive tone of voice. Eames grins and steps forward, pushing Arthur onto the bed with a deep kiss that leaves Arthur breathless by the end of it. His hands are clawed in Eames’ jacket and his hair has come loose.

“You know I’m always up for a good shag,” Eames purrs gravelly and deep. The sound makes Arthur shiver, makes his stomach drop and his dick twitch in his trousers. It’s been months and the ache inside him swells viciously as his body reacts to Eames’ body on top of him, to Eames rubbing against him, to Eames stealing his breath away with another kiss.

Somehow they divest themselves of most of their clothes: jackets tossed to the floor, ties ripped loose, shirts rucked up and slacks undone. Arthur’s hand is on Eames’ cock before Eames can pull his trousers down and the hum Eames makes against Arthur’s neck makes Arthur’s hips jerk forward to grind on Eames’ thigh.

Arthur can feel Eames’ teeth graze his skin, right where his collar rests. It’ll chafe tomorrow and Arthur knows that Eames does it on purpose, claiming him, marking him, making it last.

When Eames’ hand snakes between them, finding its way to Arthur’s cock, Arthur nearly chokes trying to hold back a whine. He thrusts against his own volition, driving himself into Eames’ hand as his own fingertips dig bruises into Eames’ shoulder. The angle is awkward with both their hands down each other’s pants, but it feels so good that Arthur hardly cares. He nips at Eames’ lips, sucks at Eames’ tongue, grinding himself into Eames’ hand mindlessly.

Eames seems to have some of his right mind intact though, because he pulls his hand away and demands, “Off,” pulling at Arthur’s shirt for emphasis.

They both remove the rest of their clothing. When Eames collapses back down on top of Arthur again, grinding their cocks together and ravaging Arthur’s mouth. Arthur can’t help but wrap his fingers through Eames’ hair to hold him in place as their noses smush together, and he can feel Eames’ stubble rasp against his chin. Arthur rolls his hips underneath Eames’ and rides the pleasure of friction contact. He’s not sure how long they stay like that—frotting like teenagers—but Eames is the one to pull away again, revealing cherry-red lips that are spit-slick and so beautiful that Arthur wants to yank Eames back down to bite them.

Eames leans sideways to dig through his bag until he finds a strip of condoms and a small bottle of lube. Arthur watches from his elbows as Eames rolls the condom on. He doesn’t realize his own mouth has fallen open, watching Eames stroke his cock, until Eames reaches out and runs his thumb along Arthur’s bottom lip. Arthur darts his tongue out to lick at tip of it, catching his tongue on Eames’ fingernail.

Eames’ mouth tips up into a small smile that is devoid of real cheer. There is something absolutely predatory about it and Arthur loves it, loves flipping one that primal switch inside of Eames. Eames shoves his thumb into Arthur’s mouth and forces Arthur back onto the bed. He kisses at the side of Arthur’s lips without removing his finger.

Eames maneuvers himself between Arthur’s thighs, forcing them open, controlling Arthur’s body with a strong hand. He still has his thumb in Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur does his best to suck on it for all he’s worth; but Eames pulls his hand away and presses the slick digit to tight ring of Arthur’s asshole.

“Fuck,” Arthur says ineloquently as his lower body jerks at the contact. Eames soothes him by sucking kisses to his inner thigh. Eames’ scruff scratches lightly on the sensitive skin there. Eames circles his thumb over Arthur’s hole and then presses in, letting Arthur’s muscle relax over the knuckle until it’s completely inside. Arthur moans at the welcome intrusion.

Eames pops open the lube with his other hand and pulls his thumb out only to slick his hand and shove two fingers right back inside of Arthur. It’s a bit of a stretch but the pressure of it is delicious and Arthur only wants more. He wants to be filled, to feel the stretch of Eames’ cock holding him open, and he grinds himself down onto Eames’ hand. Little breathy moans escape him whenever Eames’ fingers press on his prostate.

They’ve waited too long to drag this out, though. That can come later—tomorrow, and again tonight. But it’s been months and they know each other’s limits, and they aren’t even close to hitting them yet. Arthur needs Eames inside of him now. He reaches down past his leaking cock to wrap his fingers around Eames’ wrist between his legs.

“Eames,” is all he has to say before Eames is pulling his fingers out, slicking up his cock with more lube and pushing inside Arthur with a groan.

They fuck hard and fast. Eames moves Arthur with each snap of his hips until the duvet is bunched underneath Arthur’s shoulders and his head hangs off the side of the bed. Eames alternates from panting into Arthur’s neck and sitting up for better leverage. His hands roam over Arthur’s skin like Eames is hungry for contact. Arthur holds onto Eames’ thigh, urging him harder, deeper as his other hand fists his own cock. He can feel himself leaking over his fingers.

“Fuck, Arthur, you’re gorgeous. I’ve missed your bloody beautiful face and your fucking smell.” Eames gasps, punctuating the latter by collapsing forward and burying his face into Arthur’s hair. He traps Arthur’s hand against his stomach, and Arthur whines.

“No, Eames. I’m so close. Please,” he begs, struggling to push Eames up. Eames draws back reluctantly, as if he doesn't have the strength, too fucked out and running on instinct rutting into Arthur. Eames picks up his pace and Arthur’s hand flies over his dick, faster and faster until his muscles lock up and his head tips back and he’s coming over his own chest.

Arthur goes silent when he comes, as if his voice box locks up with the ecstasy, but Eames is loud. He curses as he drives in a few more times and then groans as his hips lose their rhythm and he spills inside of Arthur.

Eames bends over to give Arthur a quick kiss before he pulls out and heads to the bathroom. He comes back with a hand towel and without the condom. Arthur takes the towel from him and wipes the come from his hand and stomach. He tosses it onto the floor as Eames collapses onto the bed beside him. The room is warm and they’re both sticky, but neither of them attempts to make it to the shower.

Eames wraps an arm around Arthur’s stomach and they doze as the sun sets.

***

They have dinner at the restaurant attached to the hotel. The night is cool as they sit on the open patio, and their char fillet and veal knuckle is superb. The lights of the buildings around them reflect off the Schanzengraben canal below. It’s not simply a nice dinner, though. They are here to observe the influx of patrons for the auction.

They’re also here to stake out the the schedule and habits of its employees as well as the security up close. Human’s can be transient, and even the strictest of schedules have deviations. The bid for the painting will go live in two days in one of the hotel’s ballrooms. There is a lead up celebration, a dinner party tomorrow. News of the auction itself has been kept fairly hushed. Paintings with unknown or interrupted providence have legal problems attached to them as well as a stigma towards their purchase.

Arthur has been keeping an ear to the ground in the art world ever since that first painting he and Eames stole together. For a while he wasn’t sure what he was looking for or which painters Eames had forged. Eames didn’t include him on heists that could be pulled solo. Sometimes Arthur was unavailable. But soon a pattern of thefts over the years emerged. Eames seemed to like forging Degas best. Arthur’s inclusion on a few of the more recent jobs pulled three Picassos off the market—only two of which were reported by the Pfaeffikon cultural center—and a Cezanne, Degas, van Gogh and Monet from another museum in Zurich.

Now that he thinks of it, nearly all the thefts Arthur participated in were located in Switzerland, barring that one in Amsterdam. The Swiss seem to like their Nazi war treasure. Or possibly the Swiss are just hospitable to the sale of goods. The hotel for this bidding is remarkably discreet about hosting the sale.

Arthur already has the entire hotel’s layout memorized. There are blueprints, gas line maps, and sewer line diagrams on his laptop for reference. He knows every possible exit, even the ones that may result in injury. Eames has been researching the latest in wall-mounted security. He’s practiced disabling the sensors, since cutting the hotel’s power (and backup power) doesn’t give them enough time for a less complicated snatch and grab. Also, Arthur doesn’t want to have a police chase through Zurich, even if he is driving a beautiful car and only has his false identity on him.

The waiter stops by, removing their empty plates, and Eames orders them both a Muscat as well as the Soufflé. He leans back in his chair, draping an arm over the back of it. “Tomorrow is the showing. Would you care to be my date, Arthur?” he smirks and Arthur returns the smile.

If this were a less risky job, Arthur is sure that Eames would schmooze, pocketing jewelry and wallets during the dinner. The amount of casual wealth flaunted is not surprising. Sure, he and Eames look the part, but neither of them pull in the type of money the current guests do in a year. Not that they want to. Arthur would watch from the sideline as Eames worked the room, only sometimes running interference or providing extra distraction. It wouldn’t do to go as dates for petty theft, but that’s not their goal. Their cover as a couple will actually help with stealing the painting.

“I thought that was the plan, to see if it’s yours or not,” Arthur replies.

“Doesn’t hurt to ask formally. Never know, you might find some beautiful young thing to take to the dance instead.”

Arthur laughs and Eames grins. The waiter brings them their dessert and Arthur watches each spoonful that disappears between Eames’ full lips. There are few times in their lives when they are truly unhurried. Arthur feels like he could watch Eames for days—years even—and never grow tired of it. Eames catches Arthur looking and lasciviously mouths his spoon, tongue licking dense chocolate off with careful swipes. Two can play at that game so Arthur mimics Eames, pulling sweet creamy cake into his mouth.

Eames leans over table, face inches away from Arthur’s. “Care to join me in our room?”

Arthur hums around his spoon. He sets the utensil down as Eames pulls some Swiss Francs from his wallet. He leaves them on the table and as they walk, Arthur can feel the heat of Eames’ hand at his lower back as they make their way through the restaurant.

***

The next evening, Arthur is standing in front of the room’s large black-framed mirror, slicking back his hair. He watches Eames dress in the reflection. It’s not quite a black tie event, but it is formal. Eames dresses in a summer suit: taupe jacket and trouser with an eggshell undershirt. He doesn’t wear a tie because somehow Eames can get away with looking absolutely formal with an open collar. Eames’ skin is sun-kissed from the boat ride they took around the lake earlier today. His black pocket square adds a sharpness to the rest of the soft look.

In contrast, Arthur wears a pressed, gray three-piece suit. It’s made of a lighter fabric for summer but far more traditional than Eames’ look. Arthur accents the suit with a dark paisley tie and silver-set onyx cufflinks. He steps away from the mirror, checking his wallet and identification before they both move towards the door.

Before Arthur can open it, Eames corners him, gently pushing him against the wall and then kissing him deeply. Their tongues slide together and Arthur can taste peppermint toothpaste. He can smell Eames’ spicy cologne: heady and fresh. Eames’ hands rest on Arthur’s hips and Arthur traces his hands down the front of Eames’ jacket to Eames’ waist.

Arthur gasps when Eames works a thigh between his legs and he breaks the kiss. Short of breath, he says, “We have a deadline.”

“We can be a little late,” Eames urges.

“Later,” Arthur replies, though he sorely wants to give in. Eames allows Arthur to push him away, but only after nipping near Arthur’s collar and kissing up his jaw.

Their entrance to the small ballroom reveals a small array of modern paintings and a few etchings and sketches hanging on the walls. There is a beautiful Klimt, a Cézanne and the Degas they came here for. They take time admiring each artwork, setting a pace that shows appreciation towards the art without hinting at their true level of interest. Eames inspects the Degas quickly and as they turn towards another piece he says quietly, “It’s mine.”

Arthur wonders why he isn’t worried over Eames’ personal sense of integrity with a moral code that applies more to the craft and to history than it does humanity and justice. But then again, Arthur is also a thief and a liar. He has a few bodies under his belt and has pillaged the same minds Eames has without a second thought. He would never consider either of them bad men, not in the way that counts.

Eames had told Arthur that he was desperate, young and on his own when he forged these paintings. He’s said that appreciates art too much to allow his forgeries to remain in circulation. But Arthur thinks it’s more than that. He thinks it’s the story behind them; the deaths of their owners at the hands of a tyrant may be what drives Eames to remove his involvement in this sad section of history.

After the confirmation of the forgery, the rest of the night is open to them to enjoy as they wish. They’ll observe security still, but Arthur doubts anything the hotel throws at them will be much of a problem, even if there are unexpected changes. There is no client, no price on their heads if they fail or simply choose to walk away.

Eames grabs them glasses of wine from the bar. They sip and walk shoulder to shoulder through the crowd, Eames guiding Arthur through when the path is narrow. Arthur shakes his head and smiles politely when a particularly bold but unobservant lady asks him to dance as they eat hors d'oeuvre.

“Would you like to?” Eames asks. Arthur blinks in confusion as he watches the woman move on to her next prospect. “Dance,” Eames clarifies and Arthur looks up. “Would you like to dance with me?”

Arthur’s mouth falls open, a little stunned. They’re trying to keep a lower profile, even if they are dates. It goes against Arthur’s instinct to draw attention to himself. Eames reads his hesitation and cups Arthur’s jaw, his thumb tracing the line of Arthur’s lower lip before he leans in for a quick kiss. “Please,” Eames urges.

They set their drinks down and Arthur lets Eames lead him to the floor, pressing his body close enough to feel Eames’ heat through their clothes. He rests a hand on Eames’ shoulder as Eames grasps his other, twining their fingers together. They sway to the music, circling the dance floor as people look on. There’s not a lot of attention given to them. Arthur wonders if it’s polite indifference or if Eames read the crowd better than he had and the art collectors are not as conservative as Arthur had assumed. Either way, it allows Arthur to drift more freely into the moment, to allow him to be with Eames in a way they haven’t before. Arthur can’t remember the last time he danced with anyone, even in dreams.

Then suddenly he does. It was before Mal died, in the living room of the Cobb house after a quiet family dinner. Arthur was in town for a few nights, crashing in a guest room. They had lamb and merlot, and after dinner Mal put the children to bed (James only months old at the time). They put on Piaf and talked into the night. James made a fuss over the baby monitor some time after they opened their third bottle of wine and when Cobb went to check on him, Mal pulled Arthur to his feet and forced him to dance with her.

It’s not his last memory of her, but it’s been a long time since he could remember Mal as something good in his life. Dom had come in with James in his arms a few minutes later. He watched Mal and Arthur dance before Arthur stepped back and took James into his arms. He let Dom step in to dance with Mal and had wished he had someone like that, someone to settle down with, to dance with on quiet nights, to keep by his side.

Arthur still wants that. Worse yet, the only person he can imagine that happening with is Eames. This trip—these trips—to recover pieces of Eames’ past; Arthur has never shared that level of trust with anyone. But he and Eames only see each other every few months. They both love their jobs too much to settle in any one place and tying oneself down is dangerous in their line of work. Arthur doesn’t even know how serious Eames thinks their relationship is. Arthur has never questioned it before and he sighs through his nose in quiet frustration.

“You alright?” Eames asks. Of course he can sense the shift in Arthur’s mood. Arthur feels Eames hand press harder on his back, forcing him closer to Eames’ body and Arthur turns to rest his head against Eames’ shoulder as they dance.

“I’m fine,” Arthur says. “Just a memory. Mal.”

Eames hums his understanding and pivots Arthur towards the exit. They make their way upstairs to their room. Eames kisses him languorously, not pushing for more but easing Arthur away from his sour mood. When he breaks the kiss, he says, “Shall we pack?”

Arthur nods; the task will let him focus, let him regroup. After packing, Arthur wipes prints from any of the surfaces they won’t touch in the morning and then takes the bags to the car.

It might seem suspicious for them to leave before the auction, but if they’re lucky any patrons who remember them will simply think they were in the right place at the right time to enjoy the showing. If they’re unlucky, they’ll be long gone by the time anyone puts it together anyway.

Eames is sitting on the bed when Arthur returns. His thumb is tracing over his own lips and he looks contemplative. Eames looks up at Arthur and Arthur shouldn’t think that Eames is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in this world, but he can’t help it. The angle of his cheekbones and the cut of his jaw catch the shadows, and his gray eyes shine in the soft light of the room.

“I’m thinking of going to Mauritius after this,” Eames says. His tongue sweeps across his lower lip, teeth dragging it into his mouth before he continues. “Would you be interested in joining me?”

The question freezes Arthur in place.

“I’m not getting any younger,” Eames continues after the pause. “I thought it was about time I started enjoying my life more fully. You must know what I mean. We were all there. That’s the closest...”

He trails off but Arthur knows exactly what Eames is speaking of. Arthur has never felt so close to the end as he did down in Fischer’s mind. It didn’t hit him until after, until they had cleared the airport and Cobb made it through customs. It didn’t hit him until he was in his rental car, sitting behind the steering wheel with no direction to go, nowhere to run next, no jobs lined up in the future and no family to go home to. For the first time, Arthur thought seriously about his future, the distant future, not the short term gains and losses of the job.

Eames purses his lips in a way that Arthur rarely sees: genuine trepidation. He realizes that Eames is waiting on an answer, hoping against rejection. Eames has never asked Arthur to stay before. He’s never asked Arthur to come when there wasn’t a job, an excuse to be together. This isn’t what they do. But maybe both of them are looking for more in their lives than money and a challenge.

“I’ll turn into a lobster in minutes,” Arthur says stupidly. What he meant to say is _yes, of course. Please_.

Eames smiles then sucks his bottom lip in, biting it nervously. “I’ll be sure to put plenty of sunscreen on you,” he jokes weakly. Eames eyes seem large and the look of fear hasn’t quite disappeared though Eames is masking it better now.

Arthur can’t think of words to properly reply so he doesn’t speak. He moves swiftly across the room to push Eames to the bed. His hands tangle in Eames’ hair. Eames’ mouth is hot and wet and he tastes of champagne. Wrapping his arms around Arthur, Eames holds Arthur to him. Eames’ tongue dances with Arthur’s own and they gasp through their kisses until they both need to pull away to breathe.

Eames hand strokes the back of Arthur’s head, fingers curling into the loose hair at his nape. He smiles up with his beautiful crooked teeth and asks, “Is that a yes, then?” Arthur laughs. His spine is a gentle curve as he leans down, sitting on Eames’ thighs as he claims another kiss.

“I would love to,” he says.

Slowly they disrobe: hands stroking along skin, fingers tracing bones and tendons. Arthur feels as if his every nerve is exposed, hypersensitive to touches that burn like Eames is raking through the coals of his soul. He gasps into Eames’ neck as he desperately sucks a bruise there, his own claiming mark to match Eames’ from before. When Eames’ hand moves from Arthur’s lower back to the crack of his ass, Arthur’s hips jut forward, grinding harder, needier against Eames’ body.

Eames traces a circle over Arthur’s asshole, barely able to reach. Arthur tries to sit up, to allow more room, but Eames uses the change in balance to flip them both over. Eames reaches for the lube in the side table and when he turns back the expression on his face is full of fondness.

“We’ve been idiots, darling,” Eames says. Arthur watches him sober up before he speaks again, his voice serious and honest in a way that makes Arthur’s lungs constrict. “It’s only been you for years. Nobody else comes close. It’s never feels the—”

Arthur pulls Eames’ head down and he licks along Eames’ lips to shut him up. He knows exactly what it feels like: the hollowness of another body in his bed, the loneliness of their separation, the yearning to feel whole. But he doesn’t want to hear about it; he wants to forget they ever denied themselves. He wants to stop denying himself this instant. He can’t wait anymore.

Eames’ hand finds its way between their bodies and he deftly manages to pour some lube over his fingers as his other arm braces for balance. Arthur won’t let him go; he keeps kissing like a drowning man. Eames returns every one with an urgent ferocity.

Pressing his slick fingers into Arthur’s body, Eames works Arthur open. Eames stretches him for what seems like hours: spreading his fingers, pushing against Arthur’s prostate, milking Arthur until he’s shaking and can’t form words to ask for what he really wants. He wants Eames inside of him. He wants Eames to fuck him here, in Mauritius, anywhere else in the world they might find themselves together. He wants to meet Eames’ family and buy a house where they can dance in the living room to old records and wine.

Eames finally pushes inside of Arthur and it’s like a union. They’re joined in their mutual desire, their hope. Arthur can feel it in the way that Eames won’t stop kissing him even though they can’t breathe. He can hear it in the sound of Eames’ moan when he climaxes, relief and agony, and joy.

Arthur feels raw all over after, like his chest has been cracked open and anyone could reach in and tear out his beating heart. But Eames curls up beside him, wrapping an arm over Arthur’s middle, and Arthur knows that it will be okay; that he can allow Eames that access, that Eames is doing the same. They lounge, drifting lightly into sleep until Arthur forces them up and into the shower to wash off. They gather up the rest of their belongings for the morning and then go to bed.

***

Arthur and Eames check out before a nine am. They have the whole day to spend in Zurich before the auction later tonight so Eames takes Arthur to the Bahnhofstrasse, and then back out on the lake where they fuck on the deck of their rented boat. They burn the identities they used at the hotel, tossing the charred remains into the water.

For the auction, Eames wears a simple black suit, white shirt and black skinny tie. He still looks absolutely stunning in his tailored jacket, but he’s going for a more inconspicuous presentation so that he can slip out of the room unnoticed. In the same way, Arthur is dressed in a less flashy suit as well. It’s black—less tailored then he would normally have it—and he pairs it with a forgettable gray shirt and skinny tie.

In twenty minutes, Eames will leave before the bidding starts in earnest and focus will be to those holding the placards in the room. Arthur has set up a distraction, a minor fire scheduled for the nearest hotel kitchen. He’s only here as backup, in case his incendiary charge fails and he has to come up with something on the fly, but he’s relatively certain that won’t be the case. Arthur knows his explosives.

They both take their seats, Arthur holding a placard with the number 1618, which he raises on a few of the low bids. When the bidding is past their false maximum, Eames excuses himself with a kiss to Arthur’s cheek. Arthur continues to watch the auction, waiting for his incendiaries to light. The price of the painting is climbing towards half a million Swiss Francs when the smoke alarm sounds. Arthur calmly exits with the other patrons until he breaks towards the street. The car is parked a block up and when he arrives Eames is already sitting in the passenger seat.

They drive an hour to the border of Austria, crossing without issue. The news of the theft will not have reached border control yet. Their old identities may show up on Interpol, but Eames has some connections in Croatia they can use to lay low until they eventually head to Mauritius.

On one of the smaller roads near Innsbruck, they pull over to burn the painting. When Eames pulls it from the trunk, Arthur takes a closer look. He can’t tell the differences between Eames’ and the original and a pang of regret hits him for destroying something so beautiful.

“These never cease to amaze me.” Arthur says, but doesn’t add the _you should keep them_ , though he wishes he could lock them away in an apartment somewhere to look at every once in awhile.

Again it’s as if Eames reads his mind because Eames says, “I’ll paint you something beautiful,” before dousing the forgery in petrol and setting alight. The both watch the painting burn while drinking wine on the hood of the car.

There’s no forbidding sense of end to this adventure, no anticipation of separation, so they don’t fuck on the car. They can relax in companionable silence until the fire dies out and they climb into the car, driving with the windows down and the scent of grassy fields on the wind as they drive through the night.


End file.
